I learned that when I was 12 years of age. Swathed in protective plastic, I sat in an aqua vinyl chair in Emma's Salon of Beauty in Gary, Ind., filled with the anticipation I always felt at the "beauty shop." I wondered: How gorgeous would I look when this painful process was done? What transformation would I see, once the beautician - whom Mom was paying eight whole dollars to wash, dry, oil, press and curl my shoulder-length hair - was finished?
Emma, my regular hairdresser, was away, but I knew her surrogate would make me beautiful. But how? Would I look sophisticated like the Ebony magazine model with the tower of cluster curls? Haughty like the helmet-haired Diana Ross? Cute like the girls in "Seventeen?"
The stakes were higher than usual because my best friend had accompanied me to the shop. I was hoping to impress Sharon, whose wavy, down-to-there hair required no beauticians, perms or hot combs to make it flow like the Nile down her back. I fantasized that my new, grown-up hairstyle would show Sharon how great we girls who didn't have "good" hair could look. When I felt my hair being brushed toward the crown of my head and then pinned into place, I happily realized I was getting an upsweep - an elegant, Audrey Hepburn 'do.
Finally, the beautician whirled my chair around for me to look at my hair. My super-straightened hair was plastered so flat against my scalp that I looked nearly bald - except for a Ping-Pong ball-sized topknot that made my head look as enormous as Tweety Pie's.
The walk across the room - past ogling fellow customers - was the longest I'd ever taken. Then I saw Sharon, red-faced and bulgy-eyed from her efforts to keep from laughing. When our eyes met, we both lost it, nearly falling on the floor giggling. That time, at least, I could laugh. Nearly every woman has had moments when she confronted a stylist's "handiwork" and could barely keep from crying.
Like the time I got a perm guaranteed not to hurt my delicate hair. Weeks later, my stylist, examining my hair, excitedly called over three or four co-workers. "Look, you have to see this!" he exclaimed, pulling a small handful of my damaged hair out for their inspection. "See how EASILY it comes out!"
Clearly, the men and women to whom we entrust our precious hair sometimes make serious mistakes. Black hair is notoriously complex in structure; it comes in more types, textures and strengths - sometimes on a single head - than some merely competent hair professionals can handle. How often have we seen women who, disappointed by hairdresser after hairdresser, gave up and resorted to wigs, braids, scarves, hats or to just living with awful-looking hair?
Actually, less often than you'd think, hair has too much to do with how a woman sees herself, and with how she's seen by the world, for most women to throw in the shampoo towel. Black women, especially, have the most versatile hair on earth, capable of being worn straight, nappy, wavy, curled, dreaded, twisted or darn-near-bald and STILL look amazing. It's also the most challenging hair to control and maintain. Truly, black hair can be a blessing - and a curse.
How many sisters do you know who haven't fled from an unexpected rainstorm so fast that you'd think the Blair Witch was pursuing her? How many haven't fielded veiled or blunt questions from white co-workers perplexed and fascinated by our hair's endless versatility?
What sister hasn't melted into a salon chair after a long week of working, cleaning, cooking and arranging things for others, grateful to finally have someone take care of HER? Who among us hasn't, at least once, had a stylist twirl her around to see in the mirror a vision whose perfect, gorgeous 'do made not just her day, but her whole week?
On the flip side, who hasn't sat, hour after hour, waiting to be seen by an overbooked stylist in a popular salon - even though she was ON TIME for her appointment? No wonder some of us see the beauty salon as a haven as comfy as our grandma's kitchen, and others avoid it like a pot of month-old spaghetti. But salons, and our requirements of them, are changing - because WE are changing. Most African American women still straighten their hair either with chemicals or heat, and many look fabulous. But impressive numbers are embracing heat-and-chemical-free afros, twists and locks. Our recent acceptance of our hair, as-is, signals a healthy adjustment in our self-esteem, challenging centuries-old notions that nappy, knotty and natural black girl hair can't be beautiful.
Yet the emergence of natural styles that suggest that ALL hair is "good" won't end our beauty shop addiction. A survivor of hot-comb burns, bad perms and 10 hours in a hair braider's chair, I graduated to locks two years ago. I felt like a caterpillar who'd shed at least a dozen false skins, and finally emerged - not as a butterfly, but as myself. I now have a long, versatile, entirely natural style that's all my own hair that I adore - and that I have professionally groomed very few weeks.
Sure I could maintain some version of the style myself at little cost. But why would I? My "loctician" or "locologist" lets me sit back and momentarily forget ringing phones, cranky kids, a perpetually messy house and an insistent career. I chill when she has done her magic and whirls me around; I love what I see: A relaxed woman with a style she loves, whose hair feels clean, shiny and healthy. And whose soul feels the same way.
Chapter 5
Who’s Relaxing – You or Your Hair?
By Barry L. Fletcher
The truth about lye versus no-lye relaxer and application methods.
THE HISTORY OF RELAXERS
It is a prevalent psychological theory that human beings yearn for the opposite of what we have. This is especially evident as it relates to our hair. Individuals with straight hair spend hours in the salon having it waved or curled, while those with naturally curly hair go through great lengths to have it straightened or relaxed.
The concept of using lye to straighten curly hair began in the 1920's. Hair products designed for coarse, curly textures were scarce or non-existent then, so black people created their method to soften and manage their hair. Using lye was an extreme measure, and the harshness of this process significantly limited its popularity. Eventually, conditioners and other products were added to the lye as a buffer; one of the most popular additions was petroleum. By the early 1940's, lye relaxers had grown in popularity, but their usage was still limited to entertainers, athletes and influential figures of that time. Ironically, most of them were men. Hair relaxers didn't become popular among black women until 1947, and didn't enter the mainstream market until approximately 10 years after that.
It was a black man by the name of George Johnson who first introduced and marketed the chemical hair relaxer as a professional product. Johnson was a chemist who began working with Fuller Brush Products in the early 1950's. By 1954, he left Fuller Products to develop his own product line, including a hair relaxer, which he introduced as a product to be sold only to professional cosmetologists. By 1969, Johnson Products Line. achieved $10 million in sales, and by 1971, it became the first predominantly black-owned firm to be listed on a major stock exchange.
Hair relaxing and black hair care had become big business and suddenly the target of mainstream corporations, which wanted to capitalize on the growing success of this market. In the early 1980's, these corporations began directly marketing the chemical hair relaxer to general consumers. In addition, they produced the no-lye relaxer. The no-lye relaxer kit was introduced as a mild, safe, do-it-yourself relaxer that could be applied at home. The assumptions were that consumers believed that lye-based relaxers were unsafe and damaging to the hair and that they generally were unhappy with the chemical services provided by cosmetologist.
I always find it interesting
